Butterfly
by TheAfterglow
Summary: Season 3, AU. Post A Missing Link [SIII, Ep. 4]. Sarkney. To find out where she's been, Sydney may have to collaborate with the one person she trusts the least...
1. Chapter 1

got me running girl as fast as i can  
and is it right, butterfly,  
they like you better framed and dried

(Butterfly, Tori Amos)

* * *

It has been 12 minutes since they went radio silent, and things have gone from bad to worse to horrible in about half that time. 

"C'mon, Julia, for old times' sake," Simon's voice is eager and his breath is hot against her ear as she feels his hands slip under the bustier she is wearing.

"Simon!" she snaps, shoving him roughly away, her hands on his shoulders, "Business first."

As if to prove her equal eagerness, she pulls his face to hers with a hand on the back of his head, and lets her tongue tangle with his, tasting the wine and cigarettes that touched it last. "We can't be all play and no work, now, can we?" She smiles slowly and places her pointer finger against his lips.

He looks indiscreetly at her bosom peeking out of the tight top that Ops Wardrobe gave her, and says, "You always were a tease."

Inside she freezes when she hears his words, but she lets herself keeps smiling at him, slow and naughty like she has new tricks to show him since the last time they did this dance. Not that she has any recollection of ever doing the dance with him.

He sighs deeply and turns away from her where she's sitting on the large wooden table, and she notices how low his faded black jeans ride on his hips. It's not that he's bad looking—on the contrary, Simon strikes her as the kind of man who would move girls to hop on his motorcycle and take a ride without worrying where they might end up—but she's freaking that he seems to have a history with her-as-Julia that she has no memory of.

"My contact is due any minute," he explains, "Then we'll have the specs for the job and can get to _work_." By the way he emphasizes the last word she knows the last thing in the world he wants to do is work.

"Your contact is coming here?" she is slightly confused. She thought he already had the outline for the job she's been recruited for.

"Yeah, he's super secretive, says we can only meet in person, all that covert bollocks," Simon is shaking his head, "I've never dealt with him before. Says he's only recently gotten back into the business, whatever that means."

The glacier inside her melts instantly, and turns instead to a boiling pit of acid somewhere in her midsection. Only recently? Please, God, let it be anyone else besides…

Walker's cell phone bleats from his jacket pocket, and he looks at her hungrily as he flips it open and barks, "Yeah?"

He murmurs into the slim silver device, his cheek illuminated by its display, for several seconds before hanging up. "That's him just now," he tells her, "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

"Great," she says, not meaning it one bit.

"So, love," Walker saunters back over to her, moving in what might be considered a seductive swagger, "Where've you been hiding out these past few months—I've missed you, you know."

She slides her hands under his leather jacket, over his chest and down his sides, buying a little time. "None of your business," she leans forward and nips the side of his neck. "I told you—a girl's gotta have some secrets."

"Mmm-mmmmm," is all Walker says, as he pulls her body close to him and caresses her bottom through her tight jeans. His hands are more than a little firm, and he moves like he knows what she likes. He is too self-assured for her comfort. He is squeezing her too hard, even for her liking. Just then she is saved by a knock at the door. He pulls back from her with a pout, but goes to the heavy wood door just the same.

"Who is it," he calls, as precaution, and her insides turn to jelly when she hears the silky smooth voice announcing his name through the door.

_My life's in danger, isn't it?_


	2. Chapter 2

Sark. Here. What now?

As he enters the room, she hops down off the work table and walks to the window, careful to curtain her face with her long, ropey hair extensions. They are the second floor of the Spanish villa, too high to jump. She could turn her com back on, but then what? Vaughn and Weiss are waiting in the van, but they don't have enough back-up to take the place safely.

"Pleasure to meet you finally, Mr. Sark," Walker oozes behind her, his Cockney accent seeming all the rougher in contrast to Sark's boarding school tone.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Walker," Sark dithers, "And who might your lovely associate be?"

_Shitshitshit. _

"This is one of my team," Walker's voice is clearly pointed in her direction now, "My security expert—Julia, come over here, will you love?"

Slowly, sullenly, she turns around and walks over to them.

"Mr. Sark, this is Julia Thorne," Walker says proudly.

"Well," Sark can barely conceal his smirk, looking her up and down, "I would've come sooner if I'd known my job was going to be in such… capable hands. Good to see you, _Julia_."

"Sark," she says, shortly. She crosses her arms over her chest in a way that she hopes hides her assets from his prying gaze. Walker looks between the two of them, amused as well.

"What—you know 'im, Jules?" Walker is smiling, but she can detect some uncertainty in his tone. He is threatened by Sark, and what he might know about her.

"We've had the pleasure of working together before," Sark covers smoothly. "It was a lifetime ago—Moscow, Paldisky, Tokyo… Paris? Anywhere I'm forgetting?"

"Mexico," she says, dryly. "That wasn't that long ago… I'm surprised you forgot so soon."

"Very true, how could I forget," Sark mutters, looking again at her outfit. "Mr. Walker—where are the rest of your team? Surely you and _Ms. Thorne_ don't intend to break into the biolab on your own?"

"No, course not," Walker says gruffly, "Let me go fetch the rest of the fellas."

He leaves them and Sark's smirk turns into a full-on leer. "So, tell me, _Julia_, how is that you know Mr. Simon Walker?"

She knows by his smirk that he's onto her, and that she has no memory of Simon from before two days ago, when the CIA learned of his team's work.

"None of your business," she snaps.

"I'm afraid it is very much my business," he says, advancing on her. She backs up, but the table is behind her, against her lower back. "If you have a history with the gentleman who is in my employ, I think I have a right to know about it." He places one hand on the edge of the table on either side of her hips, trapping her close to him. She is all too aware of the faint smell of his aftershave as he leans into her space to whisper in her ear, "I don't know if you were fucking him or not, and I don't know where you've been, but you need to play along if you want to stop the Covenant."

"What?" she whispers furiously, "Play along with what?"

There are rapid footfalls, belonging to several men, just outside the door, and as the door swings fully open, Sark leans further down and kisses her hard on the span between her neck and her shoulder. She gasps a little as she feels his sharp, even teeth graze her skin, but her hands go automatically to his chest to push him away.

"Um, hmm," she hears Walker clear his throat behind them, "How about you meet the rest of the team?"

Sark stands up straight, and she can feel their eyes on her as he saunters slowly towards the little group. Javier already mistrusts her. What did he mean, play along? Is she supposed to pretend she was his lover? How will that help the situation? Maybe she'd best go with it, though. The Covenant did take his money; unbelievable that they didn't know he was due to inherit those funds from his father.

The introductions are made, and Javier eyes her suspiciously as he and Russett slink back out of the room.

"So, might I prevail upon you for a drink," Sark asks, prolonging her agony, "I'm sure Julia wouldn't mind."

Walker raises his eyebrows even further, and they're practically in his hair, which is mussed and black as a pond under a sheet of ice. "I suppose not, if you don't mind, love," he seems off-kilter now, much less assured than he was when he was grabbing her ass like it was prime real estate. Sark's insinuation that they know each other has clearly thrown him for a loop.

Languid, she twirls her finger in her hair, and says, "I guess not. For old times' sake. Do you have any Chateau Petruse?"

"A Petruse?" Walker gives a short, brittle-sounding laugh, "You always did have expensive tastes. Let me go see what's in the cellar."


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as he's out of earshot, she hisses at Sark, "What the hell do you think you're doing? I have no idea what my relationship was to Walker prior to my waking up in Hong Kong!"

"The relationship seems fairly clear to me, Sydney," Sark replies, "At least, it is to Walker. Perhaps we should give you some context prior to your disappearance," he has closed the distance between them and now raises his hand as though he might slap her, but instead caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. She shivers as his knuckles brush against her cheekbone, then her jaw line. "It's very simple. I'll provide you with a decoy of the biological agent to give to the Covenant, meanwhile you will transport the real one back to the CIA. When the Covenant discovers the goods aren't authentic, they will come after Mr. Walker as the leader of this team. Julia Thorne will conveniently no longer exist, and your demons will be exorcised."

"Why are you doing this," she whispers, not wanting to believe it could be this simple. "What's in this for you?"

He smiles devilishly as he cups her chin and says, "Why don't you just wait and see?" His blue eyes glitter as he leans down without closing his eyes and their lips meet. She is surprised, for some unknown reason, that his mouth is very warm. He doesn't even press against her, hardly. It is she who turns her head first and lets her tongue trace his lips, which he opens obligingly so that their tongues can meet, and she is unexpectedly pleased to notice that he tastes good—not like any one thing in particular, but just… not like Walker, and not the way she remembers Vaughn tasting.

Oh, god, why did he have to taste good? A million things are running through her mind, none of them independent enough to even discern one concrete thought from another, except that this feels good, really good, and she doesn't want him to stop. She puts her hand around the back of his neck, and runs her fingers through his prison-short hair at the base of his skull as she recalls the way it used to curl, boyishly, at his temples and his neck. Before two years passed.

His hand goes to her hip, and he gently holds her to him as his thumb strokes the front of her right hipbone. She breaks their kiss and looks up at him, her eyes wide and startled. He raises one eyebrow and his lips curl into a lazy half-smile as he notices that she's breathing a little hard.

"So, who's thirsty," Walker's voice trails off as he sees them standing practically nose-to-nose.

"I'd love a glass of Petruse," Sark turns from her abruptly. "Julia and I were just catching up where we left off."

"Huh," Walker grunts, and he won't meet her eyes as he pours a glass big enough to knock a rhino unconscious. "And where would that be? You said you've worked together before."

Sark peers at her, prevaricating his loss of memory, "Good question, what was the last job we did, Julia—"

"You mentioned Mexico," Walker says, swirling the Petruse, watching it form legs as it drains slowly back to the body of the wine in the bottom of the glass. "How long ago was that?"

"Oh, a few months ago," she covers, shaking her head. "I think my favorite job was Tokyo… back when I was still in executions." She tips her chin proudly up at Sark, remembering briefly the satisfaction she felt in thinking she had killed Sloane.

"You were…brilliant on that op," Sark concedes, and she breaks his penetrating blue gaze. "The poor chap hardly saw it coming."

"Who would that have been, if you don't mind my asking," Walker sidles closer to her.

"Someone who'd had it coming for a long time," Sark interjects before she has a chance to speak. "Julia is masterful at pretty much anything she undertakes."

"I'll drink to that," Walker snickers maniacally, and she is horrified as he lays on one her right in front of Sark. To her greater mortification, Sark continues watching as Walker sucks greedily at her mouth and squeezes her behind possessively.

"So, how did you meet Julia," Sark asks when Walker begins to pull away. "She never mentioned you before."

"Oh, me and Julia?" Walker doesn't take his eyes from her. "We go back about… oh, two years now, isn't that right, love?"

"Yep," she agrees, knowing this at least to be true.

"I see," Sark says, sipping his wine slowly. "Good that you've kept busy in the time I was taking a hiatus from the business."

"Sure," Walker leers at Sark, "Good for me that you freed up Julia for me."

She is aghast; would she have willingly slept with this man? Dear god. Maybe it was a good thing she couldn't remember what had happened.

"Indeed," Sark demures, but his eyes betray his curiosity. He is drinking his wine much faster than either of them. His long throat devours the wine in smooth, even gulps, and despite herself, she wonders what he might taste like now.

"So Simon," she ruffles her hand through his hair, "I think I need to settle some old business with Sark before our job."

Walker pouts for a second. "And what old business would that be?"

"If it concerned you, you would already know," she says, coy. She looks pointedly at Sark. "You ready?"

"I'm ready for anything," Sark smiles, and drains the last drops of wine from his glass.

"I'll be back tomorrow with my gear," she promises Walker, and she follows Sark out to his waiting car.


	4. Chapter 4

"That's some outfit your wardrobe department saddled you with," Sark chuckles as she sits sullenly across from him in the back of the limo. "But then, you always look fetching."

"Shut up," she snaps. "I'm not comfortable with this."

"What's the matter, Sydney?" he shrugs, "You've done this plenty of times before, for the CIA. Or is it just not the same without Vaughn here to tell you what to do?"

She considers flicking her com back on, but then thinks better of it. There's no reason for Vaughn and Weiss to hear any of this.

"It must've been a shock," Sark begins, "To find out the man you love up and married someone else."

"We are not discussing this."

"Ms. Reed is quite a pretty girl, though…" Sark stops as though he's thought better of what he might say, "She doesn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. It seems that you, however, or Julia Thorne, should I say, have not been lacking company in these past few years."

Her glare could kill, but he just smiles at her. "I, unfortunately, have not been so lucky. The CIA isn't much for conjugal visits for suspected terrorists."

"Cry me a river," she retorts. "You don't think you're risking compromising me by us leaving together? Isn't that a little convenient that the newest member of Walker's team is someone who has a history with their latest employer? I thought you were smarter than that."

"Hm, that is where you're wrong," he says assuredly. "You see, I have very little to lose in this situation. I've already lost two years of my life. My inheritance. I am but a cog in a machine that is using my money. You, on the other hand… You have much to gain, provided you cooperate, but much to lose if you don't. I would hate for Mr. Walker to see these photos," he passes her a brown envelope.

Scowling, she takes it from him in a huff and opens it to find black and white surveillance photos of her and Vaughn from about 4 hours ago. "You are a selfish, hedonistic—"

His laugh stops her short. "Have I ever told you how lovely you are when you're angry, Sydney?" She feels like she is frozen as he reaches out and again caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. "This should be a lot of fun, working with you."

"Stop it," she pushes his hand away and throws the envelope back at him. "Just… stop." She is angry with him, but the feel of his hand on her cheek is also making her insanely curious about what that hand would feel like… other places. Maybe she did have something with Walker, but if she did, she can't remember it, and all she is left with is the fading memory of what it was like… before, and even that is slipping away like the memory of a dream once she is awake.

_Better the devil you know_, she thinks, _than the one you can't remember_.


	5. Chapter 5

They reach the hotel in short order, and she's unsurprised to see that he's occupying the best suite in the place, one near the top of the hotel. He checks the desk for messages, and beckons her with his hand to follow him into the elevator.

On the seventh floor, there are only two doors, for two suites. The elderly gentleman running the elevator gives Sark a knowing look as he bids them goodnight, one that she sees and she tries not to blush.

Inside, the rooms are a mix of Spanish baroque and hotel blandness. Some things are the same the world over, she thinks. The carpet is blah. The bedspreads, blah. His equipment is strewn about, laptops, a mess of cables like a pile of poisonous snakes next to it, several extra guns, a pair of expensive-looking shoes. She takes it all in without comment. The couch looks nice. It has carved wood feet and the upholstery looks antique.

"Can I offer you a drink," his voice cuts into her thoughts. She looks over her shoulder at him and shakes her head without a word. The Petruse was enough for one night. "As you wish."

He proceeds to a bag near the couch, a leather-sided, red-piping trimmed laptop case, and extracts a silver cylinder. "This is the decoy you'll switch out for the real cylinder of agent," he explains. "You'll have several hours after the job is over before I'm scheduled to meet with Walker for the exchange, so you'll have plenty of time to make the switch," he says, but she had crossed the distance to him and stands directly in front of him where he is seated on the couch.

"Sark," she interrupts, "I know how to run a bait-and-switch op, thank you." She takes the cylinder from his hand, and slips it into her jacket pocket. Then she leans over as if moved by an invisible hand, and crushes her mouth against his.

"Mmpf," he mutters against her mouth, "I thought you wanted to talk business." She kneels, one knee next to his hip on the couch, and she is ruthless with her kisses. He is still, very still, before he suddenly pushes her away.

"What!" she cries, and she feels desperate, out of control. What is wrong with him? How can he not want her now, after coming on to her like that and risking both their lives?

"I was merely going to suggest we move to the bed," Sark says, his voice low, and he surges up from the couch to grab her around her waist. This time it is he who is punishing her with his kisses, so hard and furious she is afraid they might chip their teeth, and he is dragging her towards the bed.


	6. Chapter 6

He throws her down and she bounces a little, but he is on her instantly, the length of his lean, hard body pressed against hers. She can already feel his erection pressing into her thigh, and her own traitorous body is responding in kind. She can barely move, less from the weight of him on top of her than the languid softness that has suddenly overtaken her body. He feels nothing like Vaughn, and for that she is eternally grateful. Her arms are pinned at her sides, and she cannot, nor would not, resist him. The logical, professional part of her mind screams that she should stop this, no matter how good it feels, but she knows she won't. It is rare for her to move with any kind of abandon, and after the brutal eggshell life she's been leading these past couple of months, she just wants to feel something _normal_. Even if this is so completely abnormal—to be feeling this way because of… _Sark_.

Kissing her neck, he nips her skin hard enough that she knows she'll be bruised, and she arches back against the bed, baring her throat to him. She shudders to feel him slip his hand under her head, his fingertips on her scalp.

"Sydney," he breathes, and she forces herself to focus her eyes back on his face. He looks much younger than she remembered. There are tiny flecks of gold in the blue of his irises, and she notices that he's breathing hard, too.

"What," she lifts her head to peck his lips with her own. "Please, don't stop."

"Is your comm still on," he whispers, mouthing the words more than aspirating them. She silently shakes her head, and he eases off of her so she can remove the earring with the comm hidden in it. She turned it off an hour ago, but now she slips it into her jacket pocket.

She stands in front of him where he sits on the edge of the bed, he draws her close to him, his hands tracing up the backs of her thighs, over her buttocks where they're squeezed into these damn jeans, then up her front to where the zipper of her bustier runs down her midsection. His lips part ever so slightly and he looks at her with his lazy blue eyes as he tugs the zipper down, down, down until the bustier mercifully pops open and she can breathe all the way to the bottom of her lungs. For the first time in 5 hours she can draw a full breath, and she sighs deeply.

"Thank you," she murmurs as he runs his hands up her hard, flat stomach and around her ribcage to her middle back, where her black lace bra is still hooked together.

He doesn't respond, but presses his face against her tummy and she laughs a little as he tickles her with his nose and kisses her navel. He fumbles, uncharacteristic for him, with the clasp on her bra, and finally, she reaches around to help him.

"Sorry," he says, looking up at her and slipping the straps of her bra off over her slender shoulders. His fingers trace the scar on her shoulder, from where Irina shot her, and a shadow of… something passes over his face. But as quickly as a dark spot on the ground from a cloud, it's gone again, and she straddles him to unbutton his shirt. She can feel from the texture of the fabric that it's an expensive make, and she wonders silently how he had the funds to rebuild a wardrobe so quickly. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her hands even as his own hands caress her back.

Their mouths meet again, less desperate this time, as she slips her hands inside the collar of his shirt and pushes the cloth down off his shoulders. He is very smooth, and very warm. He pulls her tight against him, and she trembles as their bare skin meets and she feels her breasts smashed against his chest. It has been so long, but it doesn't feel like it. His thumbs brush gently against the sides of her breasts, and she closes her eyes against the undertow of desire that threatens to suck her into complete submission.

"Shall I turn off the light," he suggests quietly, and she nods, slightly embarrassed. She shimmies off of him and he goes to the door. She lies back on the bed, one arm underneath her head, and unbuttons her agonizingly tight jeans. When the lights flick off, she is surprised at how dark the room actually is. Usually hotels had more light from the window, but then she remembers that the drapes were drawn when she entered the room.

She feels the bed shift with his weight, somewhere near her feet, and then she starts a little as she feels his hand on the side of her hip. His breath is warm against her belly for a split second before she feels his teeth gently nipping at her skin, and she moans as he slowly unzips her jeans. The metal teeth of the zipper slide apart and she shifts a little so that he can get his hands under the waistband of her pants. Already she can feel the delicious, juicy wetness between her legs, and she is beyond shame at how it came to be. He tugs her pants off, leaving the tiny thong in place.

Now he lies beside her, and she is practically slack with desire; he takes her hands and guides them down to his pants, which are still wholly in place. Forget sexy, forget foreplay, she thinks as she undoes the button and zipper, not even disguising her grope to check out his assets. He draws a sharp breath as her fingers trace over his hard-on through the silk of his boxers, and now he lifts her chin with his free hand so that he can kiss her again. She keeps her hand on him, and the kiss seems endless: he bites her lower lip gently, then not so gently, as she strokes him and he arches against her slightly.

"Ow," she giggles, and he pulls away to push off his own pants. She props herself up on her elbows, one knee drawn up so that her foot is flat on the bed, and she hears his pants hit the floor. It is so dark she cannot see anything, but she can hear his breathing, and she would swear she could hear her own heartbeat, it's so strong.

He runs his hand up the outside of her leg, and directs her onto her front. She has butterflies, and she can feel her own heartbeat in her stomach against the bedspread. The heat of his body is near her back, and she shivers as he brushes aside her hair to kiss the back of her neck. He settles onto her, gently, still supporting his weight on his elbows, and she bites her lip when she feels that it wasn't only his pants he took off a second ago.

"Sydney," he breathes against her, "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready for anything," it slips out as easily as a lie.

He chuckles, and his stomach moves against her back as he reaches down and shimmies her thong off. She doesn't move as she feels him slide back on top of her, and when he nudges her legs apart with his knee, she obeys with no hesitation.


	7. Chapter 7

The awful bustier is the last thing she zips up, and she turns around to see him curled on his side like a satisfied cat under the sheets. She's not sure when they got under the covers, but she knows she's been gone much longer than she intended to be. The lamp on the bedside table is on, and the room is aglow with a pleasant, golden light.

"Listen," she starts, but he interrupts her.

"Don't," he shakes his head a little. "Don't make this anything more than it is."

"And what is that," she doesn't look at him, afraid of what he'll say.

"A partnership," he smiles lazily and closes his eyes. "What else would it be?"

* * *

Outside in front of the hotel, she flicks the comm on. "Boy Scout, this is Phoenix, do you copy?"

"Phoenix, we copy—where are you?" She can hear the relief and the exasperation simultaneously in Vaughn's voice, just like it used to be. She feels strange hearing his worry, a feeling she can't pinpoint as any one emotion.

"I'm nearby, I'll meet you at the rendezvous point—give me ten minutes."

She hails a cab and settles back in the seat as the cabbie tears through the crowded, narrow streets. She is sleepy, but watches the slender, chic couples swaying in the night on the sidewalks, waiting to get into nightclubs and bars. Absently she twirls her finger in the long ringlets, the hair extensions that take her hair nearly to her waist. She tries to forget how it felt to have him brush her hair off her back, how firm his hands were and—

Stop it, _stop it_, she thinks. He killed your best friend. He had Will tortured. You are weak, and stupid, and desperate, and you let him take advantage of it. All of it.

"Señorita?" the cab has pulled to the curb but she hadn't even noticed.

"Gracias," she tosses some money over the seat at the guy, and gets out of the cab. Vaughn is already waiting outside the van. His brow is creased with worry, and his mouth is set in a hard line. She shakes her head at him and climbs into the back next to Weiss.

Vaughn slams the sliding door of the van shut so hard that the body rocks a little, and he just glares at her as he climbs up into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb. Weiss won't look at her, but he's wearing his typical hang-dog expression. He raises his eyebrows like, 'I told you so,' still without looking at her.

"Where have you been? We were worried sick," Vaughn's voice is low, tight.

"We made a deal—" she starts, but Vaughn won't even let her explain.

"A deal with Sark? Perfect. Maybe we can phone up Sloane while we're at it, and get him back in on the action, too," Vaughn's naked sarcasm is hard for her to bear without slapping him up alongside his head, "He might even know where your mom is—"

"Mike, Jesus!" Weiss exclaims, "Why'd you have to go there?"

"He wants to help us," she cannot believe she is defending Sark, but the words are coming out of her mouth and she hears them like she's watching herself on TV, "I've got a decoy of the weapons agent to switch out for the real one, so that the Covenant doesn't get the weapon." She draws the slender silver canister from her jacket pocket, and holds it up so that Vaughn can see it in the rearview mirror. "We can put a tracking device on it and see where the Covenant takes it… Vaughn," she pleads, "I have to know where I've been."

He sighs deeply and doesn't respond. Weiss takes the cylinder, looking it over. Her stomach is churning, the way it always did when she and Vaughn argued. Some things never change.


	8. Chapter 8

She stands on the balcony, finally free of the awful Julia Thorne costume, and looks out over the lights of the city. She can vaguely hear Vaughn and Weiss inside the room, and her father's voice on the conference phone. The air is warm, and she runs her fingers over the spot on her neck—and there is a spot—where Sark bit her. Vaughn hates the idea of him helping them, she knows it, but then, Vaughn always hated Sark anyway. She's never been completely sure of the reason why.

Just then she hears Vaughn's footsteps at the doorway. She turns and he's at the sliding door. "Your dad wants to talk to you," he doesn't look her in the eye.

She brushes past him and goes to where Weiss is seated on the couch, his arms folded across his chest.

"Hi, Dad," she says. "So, what do you think?"

"I don't like it," Jack's voice is tinny over the intercom, "But it's more important that the Covenant not get their hands on the weapon than how it happens. Put the tracking device that Marshall gave you on the decoy cylinder so we can track Sark's movements, and bring the real cylinder home. Are you sure you can do this?"

"Dad, it's fine," she assures him, glancing at Vaughn. "It's nothing I haven't done a thousand times before."

"Be careful, sweetheart, and good luck," Jack hangs up, and the silence in the room is interminable. Weiss looks between them and finally struggles up off the couch, saying, "I'm gonna go check out the hotel bar for awhile."

The door has barely clicked shut behind him when she says, "What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem," Vaughn shakes his head and finally looks at her. "Why, do you?"

"Vaughn!" she shakes her head, exasperated. "I don't like it either, cooperating with someone like Sark, but if it means finding out what the Cov—"

"Cooperating? Is that what you call this?" He's visible upset as he crosses the room and sits next to her on the couch, brushes her hair back from her neck. "This is more than cooperating."

She cannot meet his eyes, and they sit there side by side for several agonizing minutes.

"Michael," she says at last, and she tries not to think about them in her bed—y_ou know you can call me Michael, right?_—"I have to find out where I've been. And if that means letting Sark help us, then so be it. He's motivated by his money to cooperate with us."

"And when he finds out it was you who killed his father?"

Lazarey. She hadn't thought that far in advance.

"You didn't even think of that, did you," Vaughn's voice softens a little. "Syd, I can't be everywhere at once… It's bad enough that I have to actively keep this from Lauren—"

The very mention of the name snaps something inside her, like the first awful crack of the ice on a pond splitting. "And when did I ever ask you to protect me? I can't believe I'm hearing this… I'm going to go take a shower." She stalks away from the couch to the bathroom, turning on the hot water faucet and watching as the steam rising hypnotically from the tub. The extra weight of the long hair is making her scalp sore.

"Syd," Vaughn is at the door of the bathroom. "This isn't any easier for me than it is for you. You know that."

"Do I?" she is taking off her clothes with the door open. She glances at him from behind the curtain of her hair and he's turning away at least. Boy Scout to the last. She reaches over and slams the door, practically on his hand.

She sings, as she steps into the scalding hot water.

_I can be cruel, I don't know why _

_Why won't my bal-la-loon stay up in a perfectly windy sky?1_

_

* * *

_1. Cruel, Tori Amos.


	9. Chapter 9

Weiss returns from the bar later, the smell of cigarettes on his clothes and a mild whiff of beer on his breath. Sydney sits on the couch, and Vaughn is nowhere to be seen in the suite.

"Who died?" Weiss asks, and she looks away from the television at him.

"I thought Vaughn was downstairs with you," she says, trying to keep the anxious note from her voice. Vaughn was gone when she got out of the shower.

"Ah, unless Mike morphed into a drunk sorority girl from Georgia on Spring Break, that'd be a no," Weiss chuckles as he flops down beside her. "How long has he been gone?"

"About an hour, I think," she replies evenly, staring again at the television. Where did Vaughn disappear to?

"So, all systems go for tomorrow?" Weiss carefully avoids asking whether things are OK between her and Vaughn. She knows he's trying to be sensitive, but at this point, she feels like slapping him.

"Same as when you left," she snaps without looking at him. Immediately she feels badly about it. It's not Eric's fault that she and Vaughn are in this situation.

Weiss shrugs with alcoholic immunity to slight, and she mumbles, "Sorry."

"It's ok," Weiss replies, "I'm used to being the punching bag for you two."

"You shouldn't have to be," she says softly.

Weiss shrugs, but then pats her knee awkwardly. "You know I'm here for you."

"I know."


	10. Chapter 10

At long last, an update! I'm sorry there was such a break in the action. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

* * *

She leaves Weiss staring at a Real Madrid game and makes her way to the lobby. No sign of Vaughn there, nor is he in the hotel bar. She steps out onto the busy street, under the lighted awning over the hotel door, and crosses her arms anxiously. The gnawing at the pit in her stomach is wearing on her, and she wants to find him, to resolve this mess before the mission tomorrow evening. It won't do to go out in the field like this, especially not on this mission.

Reluctantly, she draws her cell phone from her pocket and presses the keys with the edge of her thumbnail. The phone rings twice, three times, four times, and finally a fifth before it cuts over to voicemail.

"Vaughn, it's m--Sydney," she says, and isn't sure how to continue. "Ah, where are you? Call me." She stares at the display for a second or two longer before pressing 'end,' feeling like someone throwing a bottle into the ocean and hoping someone will pick it up and respond. She had always known before where to find him, never had to plead for him to listen to her. Sighing deeply, she heads for the café down the street, one emanating a warm, orange glow into the night. Maybe they have warm milk on the menu.

She sits at a table near the back, the phone in front of her on the table. Patiently, she sips her latte and tries to ignore the minutes, then the half-hour, then the hour that passes without so much as a text message from him.

The barista is making the motions of closing up the place, so she settles her bill and makes her way back to the hotel.

Weiss is already snoring when she slips back into the darkened suite, and she can see instantly that Vaughn's side of the bed is empty. They had decided that the least awkward sleeping arrangement was to put her on the couch and have Weiss and Vaughn share the ridiculously large king-sized bed.

She slowly gets undressed in the bathroom and reluctantly pulls on her pajamas. Stretching out on the couch, she pulls the sheet up to her bellybutton and tucks one elbow behind her head, and waits.

And waits.

Alone in her thoughts in the dark, she tries not to overthink the tenuous pact she has made with Sark. It's hard not to remember the last business transaction she had with him, her naively simple plot to kill Sloane and save Vaughn's life. She scrunches her eyes shut against the embarrassment at the memory; how stupid can you be, she thinks? Her cheeks burn in the darkness when she thinks back on the evening, how easily she gave it up to him, and how she hadn't disliked it. On the contrary. He, who had laughed at her when he'd realized she had no memory of her missing two years. Jerk. She unconsciously strokes the spot on her neck where he bit her, and shivers slightly to imagine his head tucked there, between her ear and her shoulder.

Still, she has as much reason to trust him as anyone. Nothing is the same. Vaughn had become… unreadable. Dixon's easy way with her has stiffened with responsibility and authority, though she senses a slightly apologetic tone when he has to delegate the dirty work to her alone now, without being able to join in on the action. Her mother is missing, Will in Witness Protection, Francie gone for good.

She smiles a little, a wry quirk of her lips, remembering Sark's proclamation: _You and I, we're destined to work together—I truly believe that_. She has always wondered if Sark hadn't hoped they were destined for a little something more than work.

Just then, she hears the door click open and a shaft of light cuts across the couch. She sits up as Vaughn enters the room and they are enveloped in darkness again when he closes the door behind him.

"Syd," he whispers, "I got your message—are you still awake?"

"Yes," she replies, swinging her legs off the couch and motioning for him to follow her out onto the balcony, away from the sleeping Weiss. She followed him, barefoot, out onto the concrete balcony and shut the sliding door gingerly behind her. "Where were you," she asks, looking out over the city. "We were starting to get worried."

Vaughn shrugs, and she can tell he still feels obstinent. "I went out—Lauren called, I needed to talk to her."

"Listen," she begins, but he interrupts her.

"No, _you_ listen—" Vaughn breaks off, perhaps realizing how harsh his tone is, before continuing. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't let you know where I was going—I know it's not safe. I just had to get out of here for awhile."

She nods and crosses her arms over her stomach.

"I'm concerned, for you—_about_ you," he says, "This is just all so familiar—you _wanting_ to do the right thing, but doing it in a way that's… shady," he shakes his head. "And I just worry that you're going to get hurt, Syd, that's all. You're making a backdoor deal with someone we've known to be untrustworthy in the past, who's double-crossed you before, to double-cross someone who knows you as a different person? This sounds…" he searches for the word, "Crazy. I'm sorry, but it does."

"You're afraid I'm going to get hurt," she repeats, nodding.

"What are you gonna do when Sark finds out Julia Thorne is the one who murdered his father?" Vaughn's tone is gently pleading, for her to come to her senses, she supposes.

"Well, I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we?" she snaps. "And thank you for your supposed concern, but I think it's misplaced. You're not my handler anymore, Vaughn, it's not your professional ass on the line if this gets screwed up. You know the Agency's waiting for any excuse to take me off active duty, which would put me conveniently out of the way for you to continue on your way up the ladder, where you were headed before I ever messed up your life."

She looks up, finally, chin still down defiantly, and finds him staring at her, one hand on his hip and the other on the balcony railing. "Well?" she asks, daring him to contradict her. "Isn't that right?"

He snorts, a lungful of air rushing through his nostrils. "If you believe that, then you're even more messed up than I thought." At that, he turns on his heel and re-enters the hotel room.

"Sleep tight," she calls sarcastically, turning towards the railing and staring out at the city.


	11. Chapter 11

The job goes well, save for the panicky hitch in Marshall's safe cracking code that has Javier jumping down her throat. The second time, it works, and she responds with what she hopes is Julia's characteristic cool sarcasm: "It's not exactly factory-condition."

Javier shuts up, and she is relieved to see that the cylinder of biological agent that he extracts from the freezer matches exactly the decoy that Sark gave her. It's safely camouflaged in a bag of tampons back in her bag, at the hotel.

They steal out of the facility, back to the Hummer and make tracks for the city.

In the hotel room, Simon sidles up behind her on the balcony, slipping his hands around her waist and then down her front to cup her possessively. She stiffens at his touch, and then he's whispering in her ear, "The fellas want to celebrate a job well done, but I don't think they trust you… Can I make it up to you later?"

She puts on her best smile and turns around to face him. "They trust me enough to steal biological weapons, but not to share a few drinks, huh?" She toys with the buttons on his shirt, biting her lip as though considering whether or not she approves of him going out without her. "If it's a guy thing, I suppose I could take you up on your offer."

Walker smiles and laughs evilly, the sound bubbling out of his throat. He squeezes her ass tightly and pulls her to him, his lips smashing hers. He pulls away to ask, "Say—did you get your business straight with Mr. Sark last night?"

"That's between me and Mr. Sark," she replies cryptically, pushing him away with a hand on his chest. "You'd better not keep the guys waiting."

Walker eyes her as though he might keep them waiting quite awhile longer, but finally shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Alright, then. Don't you go disappearing on me again—I like you around."

"I'll try," she smiles slyly at him.

The second the door closes behind him, she is in motion, pulling the decoy from her bag and running the decryption device on the suitcase containing the real cylinder of agent. God only knows what the Covenant wants with a propellant to make the deadliest viruses airborne—she shivers at the thought—but they're not getting it. She snaps a pair of latex gloves on, so as not to leave any fingerprints behind on the case.

The device beeps as it finishes deciphering the lock's codes, and she hurriedly dials the combination. The locks click smoothly open, and she opens the case to find the silver metal cylinder resting in the foam. Before she places the decoy in the case, she peels a small black sticker from its backing and places it squarely on the bottom of the container. It could be anything—a lab marking, a manufacturer's label—but this sticker carries a tiny transmitter that will go hot in 24 hours. Hopefully by then, Sark will have carried it back to the Covenant's headquarters, where they will conveniently discover that it's not real, and Simon will be permanently relegated to her past.

She carefully wraps the real agent in a t-shirt and places it in side her bag. She is meticulous in positioning the case back under the bed, lest it arouse Simon's suspicions when he returns from the bar with liquor on his breath and finds her note on the bedside table.

_S—you always did say I was a nutter. I forgot I have to meet a friend later. Catch up with you soon? J._

She steals downstairs down the stairwell, passing several maids chattering in Spanish on a landing, smoking inside the building. Vaughn and Weiss are waiting in the van parked in the alley behind the hotel, and as Weiss careens through the narrow streets towards the airport, she unwraps the cylinder delicately and hands it to Vaughn. He places it in a suitcase not unlike the one it just came from, and as he clicks the locks shut with his thumbs, he mumbles, "Good work, Syd."

She nods, silent, and stares out the window.


	12. Chapter 12

Her apartment is full of boxes, but empty of a certain feeling—the one of _home_. It's been weeks since she moved in, and Weiss came by to drain her tequila bottle with her on the floor of her living room. He insists Lauren is nice, and that Vaughn loves her.

That makes her resent Lauren even more—that _her_ friends like her, too.

Tonight, a week after returning from Spain, she sits by the window and watches the daylight fading outside. Marshall and Carrie invited her to dinner, but she declined, preferring instead to come home and sit alone, not having to make awkward catch-up talk. Besides, she sensed that Carrie was tired, being in her last weeks of pregnancy and all. She had caught sight of Vaughn and Lauren leaving work as she had sat in her car in the garage, and much to her shame, had followed them a considerable distance in their car before turning off down a side street. _Stupid crazy_, she told herself. _You're being ridiculous_.

The doorbell chimes, and she goes to it, half-expecting and half-hoping that it is her father, who had looked grimly pleased to see her back after Madrid, but who hadn't commented on her unholy alliance with Sark. She knew he and Dixon had likely endlessly dissected it, strategizing and agonizing over her choice.

But when she opens the door, it is Sark who is standing on the other side. His sunglasses are hanging from the neck of his v-necked grey t-shirt, and his leather jacket is open despite the chilly early autumn air.

"Oh," is all she can managed, and then, "What are you doing here, come inside before someone sees you!"

"I thought you'd never ask," he replies smoothly, stepping inside the foyer and down into her kitchen. She closes the door after a quick glance outside to see if Weiss is home. His living room light is dark, and she feels a momentary pang of uneasiness to think that he might be out with Lauren and Vaughn. Without her.

She pads softly down the stairs and stands across from him, safely separated by the peninsula counter. "Can I get you something to drink?" She mentally kicks herself; it's too easy, too casual. But he replies before she can revise: "No, that's quite alright—thank you, though."

He takes in her place, his face impassive, before turning to her and saying, "This is rather nice. Certainly nicer than your previous flat."

She tips her head, partially in agreement and partly because she doesn't know what to say, wondering if he was ever actually in her apartment with Allison Doren. The thought that he was sleeping with her even as she seduced Will sickens her. "What do you want?"

"I thought you might like to know the outcome of our little venture from last week," he begins. "As predicted, the Covenant's people sussed out the fake agent rather quickly."

"And then?" She can picture a map with a dot on it where the tracker went hot: just outside Prague, in the Czech countryside.

"And then, they went back to the source," he lifts an eyebrow at her. "I think you know what happened."

"What did Walker say," she asks, hoping he kept to business in his last moments.

Sark breaks her gaze, and purses his lips before continuing: "I attempted to glean whatever information he had about you before he met his end, but he was… unhelpful."

"Unhelpful," she repeats in disbelief. "What does that mean?"

Sark pulls out one of the bar stools at the peninsula and perches lightly on it, looking at her. "He merely suggested that you'd been… partners, and that you—or Julia Thorne, I suppose—had taken off without a trace several months ago."

"That's not all he told you," her tone is accusatory. "What are you not telling me?"

"It seems your specialty was assassinations," Sark says, his voice low. "And unless you're a completely different Sydney Bristow than the one I knew, I imagine that news comes as a shock."

She hesitates, thinking of the grainy surveillance video tape of her drawing a blade across a man's throat. And of Walker's taunt: _What's the matter, Julia, no future in murder?_ She brushes past him to the living room, sinks down on her couch and looks at her hands. "But how did I get there," she wonders out loud. "The last thing I remember is fighting Francie in our apartment, and then I wake up in Hong Kong and it's was two years later and Vaughn is marr—" She breaks off before a sob can cut her off. The tears that have welled to the edges of her eyelids teeter stubbornly, burning but refusing to fall.

"I'm afraid that's not intel I have at the moment," Sark's voice is surprisingly gentle, "But that doesn't mean we can't find out."

"Sark?" she asks, her voice quavering, "Did I—I mean, did Walker say if he and I… were, uh, you know."

"I don't think you need _me_ to tell you that," Sark replies, "I think you know the answer to your own question."

She hangs her head and sighs, nodding. Her back is to him, but she can hear him come up behind her. So, there it is; Julia Thorne apparently has terrible taste in men as well as being a murderess.

The cushion of the couch shifts as he sits down behind her. "Sydney, look," he begins, but she turns to him and says, "No—it's alright, you don't have to say anything."

Their knees are almost touching, and though the thin material of her pajama pants she can feel the heat radiating from his leg, under his jeans. She notices that this is a more casual Sark than the manchild who worked for her mother. Still, the easy uniform make him seem more masculine, more in control than he did as Irina's righthand man.

"So, uh," she stalls, "How's prison food?" A weak attempt at humor, but he chuckles and places his hand over hers. His palm is very warm against her knuckles, and he strokes the side of her wrist with his thumb. He doesn't answer the question, but instead rubs a small circle against the bone of her wrist. She is unsurprised when he leans towards her and nuzzles her sharp jawline with his nose and lips. His scent is warm, vaguely heady, like man's cologne, though not in the obnoxious, overpowering way that so many men around the agency wear it. "Sark," she whispers as he begins kissing her neck, "Stay with me." It is not a question, and he whispers against her neck, "Yes."


	13. Chapter 13

In the night, she awakens to find him next to her, the light on the bedside table glowing softly, reading one of her few new books. The library will be her friend until she can rebuild the collection that was lost in the fire. He glances at her for only a second before returning wordlessly to his reading.

"Hey," she whispers, and wriggles closer to him, until she can feel the length of his body against hers. He amiably cradles her head against his shoulder, his hand aimlessly stroking her hair. "What are you reading?"

"Some book you had here," he replies softly. "I couldn't sleep." At that he carefully closes the book and replaces it on the nightstand, shifting slightly under her to turn out the light.

Enveloped in the sudden darkness, he turns on his side so that they are facing each other.

"Hi," he says, and she is struck by how simple this seems, even in all its abnormality.

"Hi," she replies, and her thumb works back and forth against the groove of his hipbone. He draws a quick breath, and she knows she's getting to him. His hand traces the line from the notch in her collarbone, between her breasts and down her stomach to her belly button, his fingers warm and silky against her skin. She closes her eyes, her eyelids heavy with lust. With each lap, his fingers go further towards her underwear, which she left on when she kicked off her clothes earlier. He had agreed to stay on the couch, but finding him here is more than a pleasant surprise. He props his head up on one elbow, and leans over her to kiss her forehead, then her eyelids, then finally reach her mouth. His tongue is insistent, but not overeager, and she moans softly against his mouth as his tongue sweeps against hers. She is dimly aware of his fingertips easing their way under the elastic of her underwear, and she circles his wrist lightly with her fingers, slowing him.

He breaks their kiss but doesn't pull away. "Are you alright," he asks, and the sensation of his lips, still wet from their kiss, moving against hers, is unspeakable erotic. Already she is aching for the satisfaction she knows he can bring her, and she nods, wordlessly, and pushes him away, flat on his back.

His face betrays his mild amusement as she efficiently takes care of dressing him in a condom from her nightstand—she bought them in a fit of thoroughness at the drugstore three days ago—and shimmies out of her underwear. She straddles him, and he lets her take the lead as she faces away from him. With his hands on her hips, he guides her down onto the tip of his cock, which makes her shudder as she feels him begin to part her slick, hot center.

She can't help the cry that slips out of her as she lowers herself in one motion down onto him, taking him into her in one rush. Her hands are flat on the sheet between his thighs and she rocks back, feeling the twinge of pleasure as it changes the angle of their union.

He groans with pleasure, and draws one knee up to give him more leverage against her weight. She tries to stay still as he circles his hips under her, but she finds it impossible not to match his movement; one of his hands is still at her hip, but his other is roaming over her back, around the front over her lower stomach, between her legs to fondle her clit. She is so full of him she feels like she might split in half; he is invading her senses, overloading them to the point of short-circuit. With one free hand she pinches her own nipple, hardened by the cool night air, in a futile attempt to bring herself back from the brink. Just then she feels his fingers roaming over her tailbone, stroking the baby-soft skin of her buttocks, and as his fingers brush against her anus, she stills her movement.

"Sark," she croaks, "Please?" She hopes he knows what she needs, and to her relief, he lets her swirl her tongue over his fingers, coating them with saliva before he returns his hand to her rear.

"Relax, Sydney," he whispers, and she can hear in his hoarse statement that he is close, too. "I don't want to hurt you."

She breathes deep and tries not to tense as he gently rubs his saliva-slick finger against her, wetting her before he firmly pushes his finger inside her. She lets herself go, then, or rather, can't hold back the tide any longer, and she breaks, crying out his name and a string of expletives mixed with blasphemous exclamations. She is vaguely aware of him as he comes, bucking under her and pulling her indelicately down to meet his hips with his free hand on her hip. The intensity of her orgasm makes her head buzz, and she hangs her head against the dizzy feeling washing over her. When it subsides, she climbs off him and lays facing away on her side. Her thighs shake with the strain of the position she chose, and she listens as he goes to the bathroom to wash up. _This is crazy_, she thinks, _and I am powerless against it_. She feels like she would do anything for him, ask him to do anything, and normally, that kind of give and take would be completely out of the question. But there's something about this…

She feels the bed shift as he slips back beneath the covers and slides against her, draping his arm across her waist and cupping her breast with his hand.

"Hey," he whispers against her hair, "Are you tired?"

She doesn't respond immediately; she is tired, but what he's asking is something else entirely. His half-erection is already pressing against the backs of her thighs. He is younger than she is, but it's been some time since she was with someone who was so… ardent.

"No," she says, her voice husky with lack of sleep, "I'm not that tired. Are you?" She rolls towards him, and he moves his hand up to her neck, cupping her jaw in the web of his hand, between his thumb and his forefinger. She stiffens involuntarily, a reflex of years of survival training, but relaxes against him as his lips meet hers and their tongues tangle. He trails his hand down over her chest and rubs his palm possessively over her belly button, sending shivers of delight down in anticipation of other places he might move his hand. She is powerless to resist as he rolls over her, and their mouths are too busy tasting each other to protest that they should slow down, that this is too much. Her thighs tremble as she spreads her legs to make room for his hips and with a free hand, he guides her leg around his waist. Her arms go around him and she runs her fingertips up and down the groove of his spine, playing around his tailbone and the soft skin at the top of the cleft of his buttocks. He grinds appreciatively against her, and she can feel he's ready to go again.

"Sark," she breaks their kiss, "I'm not that wet, be gentle."

He rests his forehead against her shoulder and murmurs, "I know."

She reaches down between their bodies and guides him to her, and in one fluid thrust, he is in her again. Then he reaches down and swirls his tongue gently around her nipple, cupping her breast softly. She lies as still as possible, but the urge to move her hips against him is unbearable and she draws him closer to her with her hand on his rear.

"I thought you wanted to go slow," he whispers against her chest.

"I can't wait." Admitting it is not defeat, it's a small triumph: at least this seems easy. Elementary, really. He is here, and she wants him.

He doesn't ask twice, and obliges her with decisive, hard strokes that nearly take him out of her each time. His stamina is impressive, but she doesn't doubt that it will be over sooner than either of them would like. She closes her eyes and relaxes, willing herself not to give in to the urge to work against him in an effort to speed things along. He bands his arm under her lower back and she rocks her hips towards him to make room for his forearm. The change stills his movement, and he is fighting to make it last.

"Sydney, I—"

The way he says her name, as though he's said it a thousand times before this way, makes her impatient to make him come, and she traces the curve of his ear with her tongue before taking his earlobe between her front teeth. The taste of his skin, clean and slightly salty, makes her lower belly contract with need and she moans in his ear.

It's too much, and he plunges into her the final time, pulling her against him and arching over her, with a hoarse yell that's half lost in the pillow beneath her head. If it weren't for his arm so tight around her, she would thrash wildly, but instead she arches back, her breasts pressed against him and her fingertips digging into his back.

They lay still as minutes pass and their breathing regulates, not speaking. She is vaguely aware of his temple, next to her cheek, being slightly damp with sweat, and can feel the wet spot growing beneath her. So much for leaving these sheets on the bed until the weekend. Then she giggles, remembering that this is currently the only set she owns.

He lifts his head at her laugh, a wry smile on his lips. "I'm not sure that I'll stand for you laughing at me after sex."

She places her fingertips on his lips, wanting the comfortable silence to return. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise."

He rolls away from her then, and goes to the bathroom for the second time. The heady glow of her orgasm is finally wearing off, and she notices she's a little sore from their coupling. She turns on her side and something pops in her back as she lies with her top leg against the sheet. A twinge of guilt washes through her at the thought that this feels _normal_. Where had their trademark sarcasm gone? She feels naked to his advances, has even welcomed them. Anything to fill this aching emptiness.

The bathroom light flicks off and he emerges wrapped in a towel. She moves for him to spread the towel, damp though it is, across the sheet before lying on his side next to her.

"Sleepy?" she asks.

He blinks once in agreement, and he cups his hand to her cheek before letting it drop sleepily between them. She takes this as a signal to be quiet, and finally, she sleeps.


	14. Chapter 14

When her alarm goes off at 7, he is nowhere to be found. The towel has been neatly folded and returned to the bathroom, her razor is in the shower but she can smell her shaving cream in the bathroom, and the chain is off the door.

She finds his note when she's making coffee, written on the back of an old grocery list. His handwriting is perfectly even, slanting at exactly the same angle towards the right, and some of the letters bear the characteristics of someone not educated in America.

_I'll be in touch soon_, it reads simply. She is a trace disappointed that he didn't mention the night before, but is simultaneously impressed by his discretion.

She showers languidly, reluctantly pulling on her clothes and twisting her short hair into a low bun. Makeup is too much of a bother, and besides, she told Eric she'd pick him up at 7:45.

A quick peek in the hall mirror confirms what she feels: she looks like someone who didn't get enough sleep. But when she thinks about the reason for not sleeping, a sly smile creeps over the features of the face in the reflection.

* * *

Four days later she is furious at him when they find out the Covenant has managed to free Kazari Bomani, a man Sloane helped to put behind bars. Surveillance feeds put him at the prison along with a half-dozen armed Covenant foot soldiers, mowing down guards wholesale. At least they take only what they came for and leave the rest of the prisoners safely behind bars.

"Arvin Sloane's intel was instrumental in convicting Bomani in the first place," Lauren sniffs delicately when she questions the rationale of using him to find out what the Covenant wants with Bomani. Her tone is lightly superior, one Sydney only hears her use in the briefing room when Sydney seems out of the loop. "I'm due to meet with him in Mexico City tomorrow, one of our routine briefings for the NSA."

"Then I'm going with you," she spits, looking at Dixon and her father to back up her indignation. Dixon is infuriatingly impassive.

"Fine, Sydney—you will travel with Lauren to Mexico City, meet with Sloane in person, and see if he can't give us a new perspective on this," Dixon blandly endorses the idea of them traveling together.

As soon as Dixon stands, her father nods curtly at her and they proceed to a private corner of operations room.

"Dad," she hisses, "This is crazy! How can they take Sloane at his word, as though SD-6 and the Alliance never existed?"

"Sydney," Jack places his hand on her arm, "You need to calm down."

"How can I calm down," she retorts, brushing his hand away. "They act as though I'm the crazy one to be suspicious of anything that Sloane says! Why did you not back me up in there?"

"You know as well as I do," Jack's clipped tone gave her pause, "That we are already on thin ice with the Agency. Bob Lindsey is waiting for any misstep on either of our parts to return me to federal custody and you to the insane asylum. And I do mean _any_—" his voice goes much lower, "—misstep. Dixon and I have chosen to keep your agreement with Sark quiet for the time being. But you know that will go over badly if anyone related to the NSA finds out."

She can't meet his eyes as he says, "Particularly as you were so vocal about not releasing Sark in the first place."

At this she nods, and wonders briefly what things would be like if they hadn't traded him for Richter in the desert. It was the NSA, after all, who bungled that so horrifically.

"Walker didn't have any intel, Dad," she sighs. "Sark dropped by a few days ago. All Walker would tell him was that Julia Thorne was an assassin."

Jack's silence makes her uncomfortable and she continues, "We won't be hearing from Walker again."

Her father nods tersely, and says, "Well, that would seem to fit with what we already knew, then. At least we're not dealing with conflicting stories. I take it Sark didn't offer any intel on yesterday's prison break."

"No, of course not," she feels slightly betrayed. "Maybe he didn't know about it."

Jack's one raised eyebrow confirms he thinks otherwise. "Keep your wits about you, Sydney. Don't forget he's one of Irina's."

"I know, Dad."


	15. Chapter 15

Their flight passes mostly in silence, with the two women making some polite tight-lipped smiles at each other and Lauren asking if Sydney was getting settled in to her new place.

"There're still a lot of things I need to get, but it's alright," Sydney replies.

"Well, if you need to borrow anything, just let me or Michael know," Lauren smiles and nods to endorse her own suggestion. "We wound up with nearly two of everything after the wedding."

Sydney forces a smile but inside, she wants to cause Lauren bodily harm. Pull her perfect blonde hair—make that her perfectly _dyed_ blonde hair—twist her nose, flick her cheek; anything to make her flinch and retract that blandly insensitive statement about how she was now married to the man Sydney couldn't believe she'd lost. What kind of social reject says something like that to someone who can't remember where they've been?

She merely replies, "Thanks, that's very generous of you."

* * *

They haven't been at the hotel for even five minutes when it all goes south: a van screeches to a halt in the hotel's turnaround and they nab Sloane, who was ambling into the lobby.

She's in the process of giving futile chase to the speeding vehicle on foot when Lauren squeals up beside her in their rental.

"Get in!" she yells, and Sydney obeys without thinking. Only after they are barreling past parked cars and narrowly avoiding pedestrians who shout obscenities after them does she think to ask, "Do you know what you're doing?"

"I cross-trained at the Farm!" Lauren retorts over the roar of the engine as she guns it through a light that's decidedly more red than yellow.

Sydney grips the dashboard and is hesitant to take her eyes off their path, but when she does, she finds Lauren's eyes narrowed in concentration and her lips set in a grimly determined line. Perhaps she's not trying to kill off her husband's ex-girlfriend in a car accident after all. "Are you field-rated?" she asks anyway.

"No." Lauren doesn't look away from the road, swerving to avoid a bicycle that appeared out from behind a building.

Of course not.

The chase is over before it's really gotten going, with a delivery truck backing into the alley they're following the van through and cutting them off.

"Damnit!" Lauren smacks the wheel with the heel of her hand, "Damnit!"

Sydney notices that she looks rather pleased with herself for someone who just nearly got them both killed, or at least maimed beyond recognition. She wonders if Vaughn could be into crippled women.

* * *

Back in LA, there is no trace of Sloane for the next 48 hours. It's agonizing to listen to her coworkers being concerned about his well-being and safety, this man who so thoughtlessly sacrificed the lives of others in service of his own gain. As she's leaving for the day, her cell phone bleats from her purse just before she reaches the elevator. 

"This is Agent Bristow," she answers.

"It's me."

Sark. How did he get her cell number?

"Where is Sloane," she lowers her voice and covers her mouth with her hand to camouflage it from anyone who might be monitoring her and reading her lips.

"He's safe, and will be resurfacing within several hours, I imagine," Sark explains. "We need to meet- where are you?"

"You'll have to forgive me, but I really can't leave work for a personal liaison right now," her voice is cold. She's still angry that he left her in the dark about the Bomani extraction. It infuriates her that he chuckles and purrs, "Sydney, really. I wanted to talk business, but if you insist—"

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorts, "Can you meet me at the observatory in an hour?"

"I'll likely beat you there. See you then."

He hangs up before she can even say he should be careful.

Bastard.

* * *

Surprisingly, she beats him there, and she loiters at the lookout point for several minutes before she hears the engine of another car in the parking lot behind her. She turns only a fraction of the way towards the lot, and out of her peripheral vision, sees him striding in her general direction. His camel-colored leather coat is befitting of a pimp, and the cream turtleneck underneath reminds her of a ski instructor, but she has to admit: he wears the ensemble well. His mirrored sunglasses are firmly in place as he steps to the edge of the lookout several feet away from her.

"You're late," she scolds without looking at him.

"You're early—were you speeding?" he goads.

"What's going on?"

"Sloane has given the Covenant intel on his contacts within the Japanese Yakuza, who've developed an artificial intelligence computer virus. The Covenant want it for something."

"Why didn't you tell me about the Bomani extraction?"

"I didn't know," Sark sighs, his tone clipped.

"Bullshit," she spits. "You knew ahead of time."

"I'm afraid you've overestimated my place within the Covenant, Sydney," he replies evenly, but with a hint of irritation at this realization. "Despite my role as their primary financier, I'm barely more than grunt labor to them. I only know about the Yakuza contacts because I was in the room when Sloane gave up the information."

"So what's next?"

"I believe Sloane intends to make himself inroads with the Covenant while presenting himself to the CIA as a neutral third party," Sark's tone belies his suspicion. "This way he can gain the trust of the higher-ups within the Covenant as it benefits him but not violate his pardon agreement with the US government because he is in fact helping the CIA."

"You don't believe Sloane's conversion either, then," she says.

He is silent, but glances towards her feet with pursed lips. "It's really the only way he can play this to make it seem like he was abducted and not a willing participant."

"How will the Covenant get the virus?"

"Apparently Bomani and I are to steal it from a computer terminal in Osaka… in a Yakuza-owned casino."

"Can't you delay them long enough for us to get there first and disable it?"

"I thought of that, but it seems rather obvious, don't you think? That would make a failure two missions of my design in a row, which seems unwise given my status with the organization at this point. The failed biological agent buy didn't resonate well with the boss."

"What if you steal it, but give us a copy that we can disable remotely before the Covenant puts it to use?"

"That will depend on what Sloane proposes when he reappears. If he intends to play this as though he's helping the CIA, your plan will likely be the best. That way, he can hang himself if he's found out to be cooperating with the enemy on the side."

She nods, turning it over in her head. "There's just one thing—how do we know you're not allied with Sloane?"

He nods, lips pressed thinly together. "I was waiting for you to say that."

"It wouldn't exactly be the first time," Sydney replies.

"I admit, you have only my word and my recent cooperation as proof," he says thoughtfully. "I think Sloane's utter lack of assistance with my legal situation after I was taken into custody might speak for my cause. Spending two years in federal custody was hardly part of my life's plan."

She sighs deeply. "This has to work correctly. You know my father and I are both on probation with the agency as well."

"Astonishing that they don't trust former double agents," Sark replies wryly. "Don't worry, you'll get your copy of the virus soon enough."

The gravel crunches under his heel as he turns to walk back to his car, and she resists the urge to look after him when she catches the scent of his cologne in the light breeze. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply, and waits several more minutes before extracting her phone from her pocket and dialing her father's number.

"Dad, it's me," she says softly. "We need to meet."


	16. Chapter 16

An hour later they're seated at a diner near her new apartment, and her father is glaring at her across the table. His tie has been removed, but he's still crisp-looking in his button-down and slacks. She wonders momentarily if he dated after Irina took off. She can't remember anyone, but that doesn't mean much.

"How are we supposed to keep the agency from designing a mission to go after the virus first if that's what Sloane suggests?"

"I don't know, it depends on what he does—but if he presents it as an opportunity to work for both sides, we could argue that letting them steal it proves he's not the upstanding citizen he claims to be."

Jack's lips are set in a thin line as he saws a lump of apple pie from the wedge on the saucer with the edge of his fork. "Bite?"

"No, thanks."

"As you say, it depends on what Sloane tells us when he does reappear," Jack confirms. "And I'm afraid this also depends largely on what Marshall can or can't do remotely about the virus."

"So all we can do is wait," she concedes.

"Correct," Jack replies around a mouthful of pie. "You're sure you don't want any?" He angles the saucer towards her as an offering. The pie looks less than appetizing, but she takes a small bite with her fork and delicately spoons it into her mouth. Her stomach gurgles in anticipation of the saccharine apples and cinnamon. She smiles at her father, still chewing, and nods. _Yes, it's good_.

"See, I told you it's good," Jack smiles. They sit in amiable silence, surrounded by the clink of forks on plates and the incoherent mix of conversations in several different languages. The daylight is fading rapidly outside, and she glances at her watch: only 6:30. Winter is coming.

Jack breaks their silence first. "I take it Sark contacted you with this information?"

She nods, not meeting his eyes. "He says he didn't know about the Bomani extraction ahead of time, that his position within the Covenant isn't privy to much intel."

Jack considers this as he chews the last mouthful of pie. "I suppose that's reasonable enough. He's been out of the field for two years, has leaked intel that likely lead to the takedown of numerous underworld organizations, and his primary contacts have gone legit or missing. That's not much of a resume."

She nods, knowing he's right about this. Jack continues before she can interject.

"So what does Sark gain by ratting out Sloane? His employers want the virus—if it's later disabled, will the Covenant go after Sloane? Is this some kind of revenge tactic?"

"I don't know, Dad," she shakes her head and crosses her arms, leaning back in the booth. "Maybe Sark _does_ want revenge on Sloane for leaving him in jail for the last two years. Or maybe he's had a change of heart, and wants to go legit himself—maybe he intends to use this cooperation as a bargaining chip with the Agency later." She regrets the statement as soon as it's out of her mouth. Hopelessly naïve.

"Sydney, I don't question your judgment in the field," Jack begins, "You and I both know that fieldwork sometimes requires split-second decisions that may change the original character of the mission."

She nods, and Jack goes on, "I do question your judgment in your personal life."

She can't meet his eyes as he continues, "You need to be very careful that your personal… interest in Sark doesn't color your professional judgment. Everything—your life—depends on it."

"Dad!" she exclaims, exasperated that he feels the need to be so specific in his distrust of the situation, "I can handle myself, alright?"

Jack huffs a lungful of air before saying, "I'd like to believe that, but your behavior in the past would seem to indicate otherwise—"

"My past behavior?" she whispers, trying not to raise her voice and make a scene, "What does that mean, my past behavior?"

"Did you ever wonder if maybe, just maybe, your dalliance with Vaughn made you less attentive to the fact that your roommate, your best friend, was no longer in fact that person? Sydney, you need to focus on the situation at hand: regaining the Agency's trust and discovering where you were for the past two years."

She realizes her mouth is hanging open, and she closes it, clenching her jaw so hard that the muscle near her ear twitches. "If you had a problem with my involvement—" she hesitates to use the word _relationship_ anymore, "—with Vaughn, why didn't you say something to me then? And it's not like it was obvious that Francie was… Allison."

Jack sighs, exasperated. "What, exactly, are the terms of your arrangement with Sark? How will it end, Sydney?"

"I don't know, Dad," she throws up her hands and shakes her head at him, staring him down. "What would you have me say? I did what I thought was right at the time, I agreed to cooperate, and he's been cooperating. He's practically the only person in my life who's helping me instead of making me crazy!"

Her cell phone cuts her off and her father's rings simultaneously from his pants pocket.

In unison they flip open their phones and answer: "This is Bristow."

* * *

Lauren is already in the room with Sloane when she gets there. His button-down is open at the collar, and a few buttons past what she'd consider acceptable for a briefing, his salt-and-pepper chest hair peeking out of the fabric. 

"Sydney," Sloane says mildly, "I was just telling Ms. Reed about my kidnapping."

She rolls her eyes involuntarily as she seats herself in one of the leatherette armchairs. "So, what did they want with you?"

"As I was relating to Ms. Reed," Sloane's oily tone grates on her, "Kazari Bomani and I have enjoyed a roller coaster relationship. I believe he wanted revenge for my cooperation in his incarceration."

"And he didn't just kill you?" Sydney tries to keep the disappointment from her voice. "It must be your lucky day."

"No, he would've," Sloane concedes, and he has the dignity to look grateful, "But I gave the Covenant a piece of intel they've been hunting around for—my contacts within the Japanese Yakuza."

"You willingly cooperated with the Covenant," Lauren repeats in disbelief.

"Well, yes," Sloane says, as though the reasoning is obvious. "And now I'm telling you. I'm in the position to be a double agent: working within the Covenant, but loyal to the CIA."

"This is classic," Sydney hisses, but she's secretly relieved that Sark called this one. Sloane is behaving just as planned. "What does the Yakuza have that the Covenant wants?"

"The world's first artificial intelligence computer virus," Sloane sniffs proudly. "It probes networks, writes its own sub-viruses… It could be used to crash markets, shut down military operations and public transportation. It's not something you'd want in the wrong hands, as I'm sure you can see. Which is why I intended to share the intel with you first, but the timing wasn't right. But now I'm sharing this with you, so that you can disable the virus before Bomani and the Covenant get to it."

"Why not have us destroy it," Lauren asks, and Sydney is irritated by her naivety.

"If this deal goes sour," Sloane explicates, "Bomani will have me killed. So, Lauren… Sydney… my life is in your hands." He leans back in his chair, self-satisfied.

"We'll assign you protection until we decide how to handle this," Lauren offers, shuffling her papers in an attempt to look like she's in charge. Sydney rises from the conference table without a word, and walks out of the room without acknowledging Sloane or Lauren.


	17. Chapter 17

Her heart sinks when Marshall confirms her father's suspicions: he can't write a program to disable the Yakuza virus without seeing the code. On site.

"Look like I'm goin' on another mission," he concludes, looking at Dixon. "If you sanction it, of course—"

"Fine, Marshall," Dixon says, and Sydney wonders when Marcus's favorite word became 'fine,' "I'll ask Strategic Services to design an operation for you both to infiltrate the casino's administrative offices."

Her heart sinks even further when Marshall interrupts with a card-counting scenario designed to attract the attention of the casino security. She can't help thinking about Carrie when he suggests getting caught at counting cards as a way of accessing the casino's back room. This might be totally unnecessary, if they just told them about Sark's plan to pass them a copy of the virus.

But there's no interrupting Marshall, and the next thing she knows, they're slated to be a couple of married Texans out to blow some money at the blackjack table.

Outside the briefing room, her father grabs her by the elbow and steers her into a corner. "Sydney, you need to keep Marshall from running his program. I'll leave it up to you how to do that, but Sark and Bomani must get away with at least one copy of the virus intact."

She wrenches her arm free from his vice-grip and crosses her arms. "I know that, thank you. I can't believe they're letting Sloane get away with this."

"Neither can I, sweetheart, but you know we have no choice but to comply."

* * *

The card-counting routine works like a dream, and in less than a half hour after entering the casino, they're being shoved into an officer's room where two samurai swords hang crossed on the wall. 

"But, sir, we weren't counting cards, I swear!" Marshall stammers, doing his best to keep his ridiculous Texan accent intact. The man turns and gently lifts one of the swords from the rack behind him. "I really like my pinkies."

"For this, we will take your whole hand!" The casino security is not kidding around. He's out for blood, and just then, Vaughn's voice comes over their comms:

_You need to hurry up, Sark and Bomani are downstairs now. We just saw them on the surveillance feeds. _

She glances sideways at Marshall, who tugs the strings of his bolo tie, shooting the security officer in the neck with sedative-laden darts. She takes out the guard to her right with a hitch-kick to the chest that sends him sprawling backwards. A blow to the temple renders him unconscious, and when she looks up, Marshall is already feverishly hacking at the workstation.

"Can you find the code?" she asks, moving to stand over his shoulder.

"Just… gimme… one second," he murmurs as his fingers fly over the keys.

_They're almost there, can you get out?_ Vaughn sounds mildly panicked.

"I'm not done yet, I'm not done yet!" Marshall is working frantically when she hears the footsteps outside the door.

"Under the desk!" she shoves him down and crawls underneath the cavernous desk amongst the dust bunnies with him.

Footsteps cross the room and Sark pulls the chair from in front of them and then his knee is about three inches from Marshall's head.

"I'm downloading the program now," he narrates for Bomani, who is ostensibly at the door keeping watch. "It looks as though someone was here before us."

Just then Marshall clutches at her hand and she knows instantly his fake moustache is tickling. She shoves her finger hard against the base of his nose, and above their heads, Sark exclaims, "Damnit, the first disk is corrupt. I'll have to use the backup."

"Whatever you use, you need to hurry," Bomani's deep, heavily-accented voice booms across the room. "I can hear the guards coming."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Sark mutters. Her stomach flip-flops at his nearness, the smell of his cologne filling the small space she and Marshall are crammed into. This is twice in two days she's been so close but unable to touch him, and it's driving her mad.

_Phoenix, Merlyn, do you copy?_

They're both silent, barely breathing, until Sark stands abruptly and says, "I've got it, let's go."

Only after the door shuts behind them does she remove her finger from Marshall's lip to touch her earpiece. "Boy Scout, this is Phoenix—we copy. Sark and Bomani have the virus."

_Get yourselves out of there. Their entrance has alerted security in other parts of the casino—we can't risk you getting caught._

Marshall sneezes violently three times in rapid succession as they crawl out from under the desk. "But, but we didn't get the, uh, virus, I can still do it," he stammers as she drags him from the room.

"Marshall, there's no time, we'll deal with it when we get back to the Ops Center, but we've gotta run, OK?" she tries to impress upon him the urgency of their current situation. "You've seen the code, maybe you can recreate it in your lab."

"But—I, _achoo_!" Marshall sneezes so hard he stops hurrying to double over. "Jesus, I don't think I have allergies, but I might be a little, uh, you know—allergic. To Sark."

She glances over her shoulder and says, "I think it's your moustache, let's go aleady!"

The babble of angry voices shouting in Japanese is growing louder when they round a corner and come upon a stairwell. She slams the door open and shoves Marshall in front of her, pulling her pistol from her purse with the other hand. A shot whines past them and Marshall flinches, but she darts out of the safety of the upper stairway to return a shot or two in their direction.

They spill out into the alleyway behind the casino and take off at a dead run. Their van is waiting up the street, and her shins are burning by the time they reach it. Stupid heels.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," Marshall babbles incoherently as they careen towards the airstrip. "Syd, you were unbelievable! I mean, you were like, like, Wonderwoman on speed—"

"Marshall, please," she shakes her head and reaches over to tear off the moustache that nearly did them in. "You did a great job."

"I—you think? Really? I mean, I'm no James Bond, but do you think Dixon would let me, uh, you know," Marshall looks sheepish suddenly. "That's not a good idea, is it."

She smiles, amused at his sudden embarrassment, "What do you think Carrie would say about you being in the field?"

Marshall deflates suddenly, and he says, "Yeah, you're right. But you were still awesome—whoa, why am I so tired all of a sudden, are you tired, I mean, I could take a little, you know, 50 winks or whatever before we get to the airport."

"Take a deep breath, you're just hopped up on adrenaline," she suggests, pulling the itchy black wig from her head. "You can nap on the plane."

"Right, plane, we've got a long flight, Osaka seems nice, but then, it's the middle of the night, so what do I know, it's not like we _saw_ it or anything…"

* * *

The debriefing goes as painlessly as that of any failed mission: it's agreed that Marshall will try to recreate the code from what he saw, and the CIA will keep tabs on Sloane's activities as they pertain to the Covenant. She can feel her father's stern gaze on her as she recounts her version of the events, but she doesn't meet his eyes. 

After the meeting dissolves, she is on her way to the bathroom when the sound of Lauren's voice, sharp with hurt, pulls her up short.

"I can't believe you'd take her side over mine," Lauren says. Sydney freezes and tucks herself behind an open door. It sounds like Lauren's right around the corner.

"It's not about sides, Lauren," she hears Vaughn reply, "It's not fair for you to accuse Sydney of not doing her job—sometimes you have to deviate from protocol in the field. Things don't always go as planned."

"I understand that," Lauren's voice gets softer and she has to strain to hear them, "But don't you think it's somewhat suspicious that they let the Covenant get away with the virus and didn't disable it at the terminal onsite? And you said yourself she went off comms in Madrid to meet with Sark to make some kind of off-the-books agreement with him." Sydney's stomach twists in protest at this criticism, but she holds her breath and keeps listening.

"Look, I know it may not seem obvious what her plan is, but I know Sydney," Vaughn argues, "She'll come through in the end—she always does."

Lauren sighs, and Sydney can just imagine her making her lovey-dovey expression at Vaughn. "I guess if that's good enough for you, it's good enough for me." She cringes to hear their lips meet and some soft murmuring that is too low for her to discern, but just loud enough for her to imagine in all its detail. When the clack of Lauren's heels has receded from earshot, she steps out of her hiding place and continues on her way to the bathroom.

"Hey, Syd," Vaughn calls after her, but she pretends not to hear him, moving a little faster until she breaks into a half-run. "Syd?"

She cannot get to the women's room fast enough. Inside, she ducks into a stall and sinks down on the toilet, the heel of her hand pressed against her lips as sobs silently wrack her torso. She will not let herself make a sound. Not because of him.


	18. Chapter 18

That evening, after carefully avoiding Vaughn's questioning glances all afternoon, she arrives home and is overcome with relief to shut the door behind her and drop her things at her feet. The mail is splattered all over the entryway from where the postman shoved it through the door, and immediately the handwriting on a brown envelope jumps out at her: _Sydney Bristow_.

She grabs it and leaves the rest, tripping down the stairs into the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer and slip it open. Inside is a diskette with a scrap of paper that reads, "As I promised, JS."

Of course: _The first disk is corrupt. I'll have to use the backup_. Corrupt nothing—he made their copy first. Just then her cell rings and she skips up the stairs to fish it out of her bag.

"This is Bristow," she answers, turning the disk over in her hand.

"You have the package?"

"Yes, thank you," she says, then: "Are you spying on me?"

"No, whatever makes you think that? I'm halfway around the world."

Her heart sinks at this news. "You just have impeccable timing, that's all."

"Perhaps you hoped I was spying on you?"

"Not really," she lies, flopping down on the couch. "Marshall's allergic to you."

"Pity," he replies curtly, "I rather like him. He's one of the few truly useful people in that operation." Trust Sark to assess the capabilities of the enemy while in custody.

"I was joking," she relies lightly, wondering how long she can keep him going like this. There are butterflies in her stomach, like she's talking to a crush on the phone for the first time in junior high. "Is the Covenant happy with their latest acquisition?"

"As far as I can tell," Sark replies, and she hears a child's shriek in the background. "I take it Sloane did as I predicted."

"To a t," she says, and again she hears the sound of children in the background. "Are you picking someone up from kindergarten?"

"What—no, why do you ask?" Sark sounds a bit rattled.

"I can hear kids in the background, that's all," she says, a slow smile creeping over her lips. "I didn't peg you for a kid-person."

"Well, your hunch was correct," he replies, "I'm not."

"I can't imagine why."

"Are you mocking me," he asks, and she can hear his smile in his voice.

"No, not at all," her sarcasm is naked. "I would never mock you."

"I should hope not," his tone is playful. "I might have to punish you for that."

She is silent for a second, considering the turn their conversation has taken. Is he… suggesting something?

"Really," she says coyly, "You would do that?"

He doesn't respond instantly, and as the seconds draw out, she feels like she's made a mistake, somehow. Damn cell phones. Finally, though, he replies, "I might have to, yes."

She giggles inadvertently and says, "I should go now."

"Goodbye, then," he says, and hangs up on her. She presses the cellphone against her ear, listening to the dialtone until the automaton comes on and tells her that if she'd like to make a call, she needs to hang up and try again.

_What was that_, she wonders. Why did he call—he knew the package would get here.

_Get ahold of yourself, Bristow_, she commands in her sternest inner voice. She tries to hear Kendall's brassy tone in her head. _It won't do to be having cutsey phone calls with your new boyfriend when national security's at hand_.

She sits bolt up right on the couch. What did she just call Sark? Surely she meant… gentleman caller. Or mortal enemy, whatever. "Fuck buddy" would even be fine. Just not… what she just thought. She bolts off the couch and over to the kitchen counter, where the envelope lies with the disk on top of it. She opens the envelope wide and peers inside to make sure there's nothing she missed, no extra note with contact protocol, but there's nothing. Her disappointment that he stuck to business this time surprises her and she's slightly let down by how quickly she's warmed to him.

Just then the doorbell rings and she has to remind herself that it won't be him. _Game face, Bristow, game face._

But her jaw drops as soon as she opens the door and finds Vaughn standing on the other side, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

"Oh," she says. Immediately regrettable. It's the first time he's come by and all she can say is Oh?

"Hey," he offers a small, cautious smile.

"Um, do you want to come in?" she replies, opening the door a bit wider.

"Ah, sure," Vaughn nods, and she moves aside for him to enter. He stands awkwardly in the entryway, not moving down the stairs into the kitchen as Sark did. She closes the door gingerly and stuffs her hands in her back pockets to avoid crossing them in front of her.

"I just wanted to drop by to see if you were OK," he explains, "I can't stay long—Lauren's expecting me home soon."

She nods, looking at the rug under their feet. Why did he have to mention her? That he has to drop his wife's name immediately she's suspicious of his intentions in coming by.

"Of course she is," she agrees, "I wouldn't expect you to stay."

"You just… seemed like you were avoiding me this afternoon, that's all," Vaughn says, "Is everything OK?"

She snorts involuntarily, and motions with her hand at the half-empty apartment and the boxes lying all over. "What part of everything is supposed to be OK?"

He glances at the rummage lying around her place before saying, "I didn't come here to fight with you, you know that."

Now she gives in to the inclination to cross her arms and she just looks at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I don't expect you and Lauren to be best friends, that would be insane—but I do think we can still talk, right? I'm still your friend."

How can she tell him that the last thing she needs is his _friendship_? It seems downright cruel to argue about something that can't be changed.

"Yes, you are," she nods, not meeting his eyes.

"Good," Vaughn exhales. "Sometimes I'm not sure that you don't hate me."

"Vaughn, no," she softens and shakes her head, "I don't—it's just hard."

"I know."

"You should probably get going, huh?" her hand is already at the doorknob.

"Yeah," he replies, "I think we have dinner plans."


End file.
